CROSSROADS
by Vplasgirl
Summary: Short, sweet missing scene post Bad Blood. Sam figures out which road she should take.


SUMMARY: Missing scene between Bad Blood and Bleak Midwinter

_England – August 1942_

CROSSROADS

Sam wasn't a crier. She'd barely shed a tear when she read Andrew's _Dear Jane_ letter, so surely she could feel a little sorry for herself now without turning into a sobbing twit. She was tough. Mostly. She'd often thought it was one of her best qualities.

What did she have to feel sorry for anyway? She was on the mend from an anthrax infection of all things; Mr. Foyle said she was an invaluable part of his team; and Joe wanted to marry her. Joe and his promise of the American dream: California, movie stars—her own Clark Gable. Why was it such a difficult decision? And why did she feel like sobbing whenever she thought of leaving Hastings, her post... Mr. Foyle?

_Oh hell._

A tear trickled down her cheek and she took a nasty swipe at it with the back of her hand. _Stop it,_ she ordered herself. _Stop it before he finds you crying and starts asking awkward questions._ Questions she would feel compelled to answer because her tongue didn't know any other way of behaving.

It was going on six, his usual time to visit, so Sam straightened herself in the lumpy hospital bed and ran a hand through her hair. The doctor said she might be going home tomorrow. She could try a smile at that, especially after a fortnight of nothing to do but stare at white walls and pretend she couldn't hear the painful cries of those much sicker than herself. In fact, pretending had become quite a lark for her in recent days, although she wasn't entirely sure Mr. Foyle believed her when she pretended to welcome the break from her duties. Her boss was uncannily perceptive.

And light of foot!

He was almost upon her bed before Sam realised he was there. Her heart jumped up in surprise, or pleasure, she wasn't entirely sure which anymore.

"Sir."

"Sam," he said before drawing a chair. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, sir. Well, a little restless. I suppose that's normal given the circumstances. And the food just seems to get worse every day. Typical hospital fare or so I'm told. Dr. Brently said I can go home tomorrow. Isn't that jolly good news, sir?"

Christopher smiled at her as he lowered himself into the chair. "Jolly good."

Sam knew that her yakking amused him. Sometimes it put a glint in his eyes; at other times it made them roll in his head. But she couldn't really help it. She tended to over-talk when she was nervous. Though why she should still be nervous around Mr. Foyle was a mystery she had yet to solve.

"There's something else, sir. He, the doctor, I mean, doesn't think I should return to my duties immediately. I was thinking of visiting my parents. What do you think?"

As was his habit, Mr. Foyle gave the question some thought before speaking, at the same time engaging in another habit that he seemed unaware of: the tapping of the hat against his knee. "Well," he finally said, "I'm sure your parents would like to see you. Of course, your young man…Joe, might miss you. He told me that he asked you to be his wife."

Sam smiled softly. "Yes. And he really is a kind man. Exactly what any woman should want in a husband. But I'm afraid … I'm afraid that—"

"Afraid that… What, Sam?"

"Don't you wonder, Sir? Why me? I mean, I have _some_ qualities, but I'm no Veronica Lake.

Sam felt considerable pleasure when Mr. Foyle's eyes widened in surprise, as though the very suggestion that she didn't measure up to the famous Hollywood beauty was too daft to consider. Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, Sam dropped her gaze to her hands and restless fingers.

"Sam, look at me."

Mr. Foyle laid his hand on top of hers as though to quiet them, and Sam's breath caught—not because of the gentle manner in which he had made his request, or the soft voice that stated it, but because he had never touched her before and her insides just about flipped over when he did.

Sam slowly lifted her eyes to his and she felt his warm hand lightly squeeze one of hers.

_Oh my._

"Are you really doubting your appeal, Sam?

"Shouldn't I?"

"Well, let's see. You do talk much and fast, you know. And that uniform you wear… not exactly high fashion, is it? And you are much too inquisitive for your own good."

Sam felt her cheeks burn at his criticism, but she kept her eyes steadfastly on his face. She had asked his opinion after all, even if she hadn't expected him to take her at her word.

All of a sudden, Mr. Foyle gave a little self-deprecating smirk. "But Andrew didn't mind, did he? And I… well, you may not be aware, but it is a Foyle weakness to fall for kind-hearted and brave young women. Especially when they're this beautiful."

Sam's breath caught again. She dared not move as her heart quickened and she became aware of Mr. Foyle's suspiciously rapid breathing.

"Sir?"

"You bring joy to those around you, Sam. You are a bright, warm light in this dark, cold world. You are a woman to love, never doubt that."

Had the anthrax damaged her ears? Was he saying was she thought he was saying? Suddenly, Sam needed to know, and that was a dangerous thing for someone with an inquisitive mind and fast tongue.

"Do you?"

"Steady on, Miss Stewart," he said as he abruptly got to his feet. But then he looked down at her, and it wasn't amusement that she saw in his eyes, but something else, gentle and warm and heart-stopping, and then he winked. "Get better, Sam. I expect you back at work in precisely two weeks."

As Mr. Foyle left her room, Sam knew which road she would take.

THE END


End file.
